House of Cards
by Jack Wong
Summary: Batman wakes up in a dark room - he and Robin are trapped, and Robin is seriously injured.  An argument ensues.


I wake up, my dreams replaced by total darkness. At first I don't know where I am.

Then my memory comes back. I passed out, somewhere with more light, somewhere with people. Somewhere that didn't smell like rotting fish and have a metal grate for a floor. So I still don't know where I am, I just know where I'm not: somewhere safe.

I'm not tied – I turn over and stand. I'm still in my costume, but no utility belt – they're not total idiots. But they are idiots for not killing me. My eyes begin to adjust to the dark. I take two steps forward and hit something with my right foot.

It groans.

"Robin," I say, and lean down over what I assume is my partner. "Robin, say something."

"Bats," he says, with a cough that sounds like a demon's trying to get out of his lungs. "God…"

"Are you okay?"

"I've been worse," he says, and sits up. "Way worse."

I don't respond, because nothing needs to be said.

"Any idea where we are?" he asks.

"No," I say. "Last thing I remember we were at the drug deal Marco told us about."

"Right," Robin says. "Think Marco sold us out?"

I don't respond.

I stand up again and walk, able to see little and unsure of where the walls are, if there are walls. I move five feet away from Robin, then my hand hits a surface. It's cold, and feels like rock. Either it's not manmade or it was made to feel that way; doesn't matter much to me, but any clue is a good clue.

"They took your belt, huh?" Robin asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Seems like they tried real hard to get the costume off."

"Me too," Robin says. He pauses. "Think they're listening to us?"

"Hard to say." Better safe than sorry, I imply.

There is silence, and I feel my way around the perimeter of our hole. I get about five feet and then reach a corner.

Robin coughs again, and this time it sounds worse. "Are you okay?" I ask.

"I'm fine," he says, but he has something he wants to talk about, I can tell. I wait, and it comes.

"I told you we shouldn't have trusted that guy."

"Not now, Robin."

"What do you mean not now?"

"We need to stay cool."

He stews.

Minutes pass, and I find the door with my hands. There's no handle, and it shuts from the outside – it's possible we might be able to force it open…

Robin coughs again, terrible. I stop. "I should prop myself up on a wall," he says.

"There's one here. Do you need help?"

"Yeah."

"Keep talking so that I can find you," I say.

"I think I cracked a rib," he says, "and I'm coughing blood."

"How do you know?" I ask, and find him on the floor.

"I can taste it. Here's my hand," Robin says, and I take it and pull.

"UnnuggGHHH!" he yells, and I release.

"Maybe you should-"

"I'll do it myself," he says, wheezing now. "Fuck."

I almost tell him to watch his language, but he's too old for that. He'd laugh. Instead I listen as he limp-drags himself across the grated floor, breathing in and out in pain. He's right. This is my fault.

"I'm sorry."

"What?" he asks.

"Marco must have been smarter than he seemed. He seemed like-"

"He was sketchy, Bats. Real sketchy." He pauses to breathe heavily. "I don't know what else you saw."

"I saw someone who just needed a chance to make things right."

"You watch too many movies."

I laugh. I've made him jaded.

"What, is there something funny going on here? We're locked in a cold room…" He coughs. "…and I'm hurt because you wanted to live out your fucking fantasy."

I straighten up. "Don't take that tone with me."

"What, are you gonna kick me while I'm down?"

"I never hit you," I say.

We pause.

"I know," he says, and most of the tension dissipates.

"What fantasy are you talking about?" I ask, sitting down cross-legged across from him.

"You're always trying to see the good in people," he says. "That's your fantasy. Sometimes there just isn't any."

I open my mouth, but what I have to say is swept away. He may be right.

"…sometimes there is."

"Who cares? These guys are all the same, they just think about themselves. Themselves and money. Marco wasn't any different."

"Come on Robin, we've used hundreds of sources. You're telling me this one time makes all those irrelevant?"

"This one time?" He laughs. "Look at us. We could die here. This one time could be all it takes."

There is a lack of sound in this room. I can't see the ceiling. And it is cold.

"You can't think about it like that," I say.

"Why not? Would that bring the house of cards down?"

I look at him sideways, not that he could see me. "What house of cards?"

"You know all it would take is one bullet in the right place, one time, and you'd be dead, right? You know that, right?"

"Of course," I say. "We're human."

"I know," Robin says, "but we run into these places like they're never going to hit us."

"Well we are in bulletproof armor," I say.

"You're missing my point," he says.

"I get your point. It's risky, okay? But we take the risk."

"Just like you took the risk with Marco."

"Do you know how many times I've been in this situation?" I ask.

"What, trapped in a basement?" Robin coughs, and I can almost hear the liquid coming up. He takes a second to recover. "We've been in a lot of basements."

"And I've been in more."

"So?" Robin asks. "Are you trying to say that it always works out?"

"No."

"But it has, hasn't it?"

"There have been close calls. Damn close calls. And I've lost friends." He doesn't say anything; he doesn't know those friends. Instead he wheezes. "So no," I say, "it hasn't always worked out."

"You always act like everything's going to be fine, though. You always act like we're invincible."

I pause. "…well…"

"Well what?"

"It's more of a mentality than anything else. Like a motivation."

He chuckles at me. "You need that to be motivated?"

"No."

"Then who's it for?"

Oh boy.

"For me?" He is suddenly very angry; kids get like this. "You act like there's no danger in danger, and you act like that for me?"

"If I said there was a good chance we'd die going into a room, would you go in?"

He starts to talk then coughs up a puddle. He's been hit bad. "I..." More coughing.

"Jesus, Robin, are you-"

"I'm fine." He inhales. "Of course I'd go in. You know why? Because you'd go in."

"That's not a good enough reason," I say.

"What's your reason?" he asks.

I don't know what to say. "…those are my reasons," eventually comes out.

"Whatever. That's fine. But with this Marco crap-"

Against myself, I start to laugh.

"What?" Cough cough. "Is something," cough, "funny?"

"No. Robin, you've got to stop talking. Just focus on breathing."

We're silent for a minute or so, then his curiosity gets the better of him. "Why were you laughing?"

"They were all Marcos. Every single one was Marco. They all could have turned." The air is thick, and I breathe it quickly. "How's that for a truth? We were never safe. Ever."

He coughs again. "I know."

It sits there, in this godforbidden basement. I guess he does.

"These guys are rough. Their home country's a war zone." I pause. "I don't know why they didn't do us in already."

I hear him breathing; it's work. He needs to be in a hospital. Instead we're stuck in a room that is a drug gang's idea of purgatory.

He laughs. "So all along you've been keeping up this little game?"

I don't respond.

"Are we going to make it out of here?"

"You should know the answer," I say, and I'm sure he does.

Maybe.

But maybe not.


End file.
